


half of me has disappeared

by catbrains



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, erik isn’t actually in this charles just thinks about him a bunch, peter is adorable and very sleepy and considerably sad, this takes place pretty soon after dofp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 06:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18463373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: By now, Charles is used to Peter seeking him out when he needs to feel small and be cared for, and he’s more than content to give the boy what he needs.At the same time, though, he tries to heal his own wounds with the illusion of the family with Erik he knows he’ll never truly have.





	half of me has disappeared

**Author's Note:**

> i’m not going to look you in the eye and pretend that this isn’t entirely self-indulgent  
> little!peter is just the Cutest and there are hardly any fics, so i suppose it’s my civic duty to crank out some content
> 
> title is from “daddy issues” by the neighbourhood, which i felt was...appropriate
> 
> (not beta read, please let me know if there are any mistakes!)
> 
> please enjoy!

Peter showing up - unannounced, unexpectedly, and uninvited - at the door to Charles’ study isn’t exactly an altogether uncommon occurrence.  Really, Peter showing up  _ anywhere  _ in such a manner isn’t uncommon - it’s just how Peter is.  He’s young and impatient and he grew up in a way that left him just a little bit spoilt, a little too used to being able to do whatever he wanted since there was rarely anybody who bothered to try and tell him any different.

The world moves too slowly for him, meaning that trivialities such as patience and politeness are tossed entirely to the wind, so to speak.  To most, it makes Peter almost entirely insufferable, but Charles, despite himself, can’t help but be endeared by it.

Perhaps he just has a weakness for those dimples.

 

He, to his credit, does not startle despite the shock of his study being in one moment empty and in the next decidedly  _ not _ , with no indication of the change other than a gust of wind which sends several papers flying and the belated sound of the door being quickly closed.  He merely raises his gaze to look at Peter, who is - thankfully - not looking all too guilty.

Good, so nothing’s broken or on fire.

Peter’s stripped of any jacket from his usual selection of flashy options, and is instead dressed in a faded black Pink Floyd t-shirt which is entirely too big for him and a pair of soft flannel pyjama trousers patterned with - oh, goodness - little clouds, complete with little cartoonish bolts of lightning.  It’s enough to make Charles’ heart clench and then fill with warmth, though it also makes him suddenly aware of the hour. Bedtime for the children had been at least four or five hours ago, and while Peter isn’t exactly a  _ child  _ and thus doesn’t have to be tucked up in bed by eight o’clock sharp, it’s still generally a good idea for him to keep himself to a similar schedule.  Even Charles does his best, and had today - as usual - kept to the routine of changing into his pyjamas before coaxing the children into their rooms, even if he - as usual - had no intention of sleeping until many hours later.

 

Charles knows Peter tries his best to keep to the same schedule as the other kids, despite his many issues with restlessness and insomnia, but many of the instances in which Peter shows up to the study are in this context - hours past bedtime, because his mind is just racing too fast and he has a burning question that’s utterly important and has to be answered  _ right now,  _ or he wants to stand and pretend he wants nothing more than to talk about something completely trite just so he can have some human contact and feign normalcy for a while without having to face the elusive torture of sleep.  They both know by now that it’s almost always a cover for what Peter really wants - what he really needs - but Charles is content to continue dancing this same charade for a while every time, if that’s what it takes for Peter to come to him and accept the help.

Charles can only be thankful that he’s not in tears - no nightmare, then.  Or not one that’s managed to make him break just yet.

 

“Peter,” Charles greets, and smiles warmly because he can see the way anxiety and a certain type of apprehension are shining in those big brown eyes, even if Peter’s mind moves far too quickly for Charles to actually read - not that he would try and do so without permission, especially not when Peter’s like this.  “It’s late, isn’t it? Do you have another question?”

The questions are usually how it starts - Peter isn’t really one for small talk, even in a context like this, so he lets his curiosity, his need to always know everything he possibly can, reign free.  Sometimes it’s basic, scientific questions - things about the stars and the oceans and the clouds and genetic mutations and magnets, the sort of things that curious toddlers ask about incessantly, and the innocence of those questions is precious.  

Sometimes the questions are more personal, more direct - questions about Erik, about Raven, about Charles himself, about what their life was like all those years ago, before all of this.

Sometimes, the questions are about Peter - begging for opinions, either for validation or for cruelty when another student has been saying things that hurt just a little too badly and Peter is too tired, too anxious, to keep his vulnerabilities locked away in his heart the way he usually does.  

‘Am I really annoying? Am I a disappointment? Do you think anyone will ever really love me? Do you think my mom hates me?

Do you think Erik could ever love me?’

 

Charles should know better than to favour any of the children.  Truly, he loves them all - they’re all precious to him, all his children - but what he feels for Peter is incomparable.  Perhaps it’s a sincerely parental feeling, because Peter is Erik’s son and Charles can so frequently see the similarities between them - can look at Peter and think, heart aching, “ _ our  _ son”.

Perhaps it was that which had led to Peter and Charles’ relationship becoming what it is in the first place.  All of Charles’ looking at Peter and craving more than anything that experience of raising him together with Erik - of living, all three of them together, in the mansion while Peter grew up, safe and so adored.  Charles would be safe too, and Erik, and they’d all be  _ together _ , and somehow Peter crumples suddenly into tears in such synchronisation with this thought of Charles’ that he wonders, for a moment, if he’s somehow managed to project it.

 

“Peter,” he repeats, much softer, watching tears roll down Peter’s pale cheeks and gather at his chin, travelling over those cavernous dimples which appear in a grimace just the same as they appear in a smile.  Charles’ heart thuds, constricting, and he wants nothing more than to be able to spring to his feet and scoop Peter up to hold him. “Oh, sweet boy. Come here.”

It’s a surprise when Peter obeys immediately, only allowing Charles a moment to pull his chair back and turn it away from his desk.  Usually it takes some coaxing unless he’s already dropped into regression thanks to some upset or another, though Charles considers that that may be the case right now as Peter crawls desperately into his lap and tucks himself, trembling, beneath Charles’ chin.

Charles has mentioned to him plenty of times how he loves it when Peter does that, because Charles can’t feel the weight of him on his legs and he  _ wants  _ to feel the weight of him, wants to feel him properly as he holds him and keeps him safe.  Feeling Peter against his chest isn’t quite the same, but it’s enough, and it makes Peter feel safe and small to be tucked up and held like he’s a toddler.

 

Charles knows that he would probably love to be picked up and carried and rocked - swayed back and forth to calm his fits of tears and soothe him gently into a restful sleep for once, and the thought of Erik doing that is so bittersweet that Charles can’t stomach it.  

He cards one hand through Peter’s soft, silver hair and holds him a little tighter, cooing and murmuring softly to him as he sobs.  Peter often cries when he’s like this - he’s a sensitive little thing, and can be set off by nearly anything from a graze to the knee due to him not quite being able to understand his mutation while he’s regressed, to an even slightly scolding or terse tone from Charles.  These tears aren’t quite like that, though - not the dramatic wailing of a toddler facing a great injustice, nor the weak little hiccups of a hurt little boy. These are tears that Charles can compare most accurately to the tears that the younger children cry when they’re exhausted but plagued by nightmares, when everything is too much and it won’t stop and they can’t find any reprieve.

 

If Charles had to guess, he would say that Peter has probably felt that way for most of his life.  That’s why he needs this - needs to be held and treasured and reassured that everything is going to be okay, that he’s safe, that he doesn’t have to think and worry and  _ control  _ himself so fiercely, constantly seeing the world as if he’s not really a part of it.

Really, that constant stress would be enough to make any little boy cry.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Charles whispers when Peter’s sobbing begins to slow, either a sign of exhaustion or a sign of him genuinely calming down.  He pulls back just a little, just enough to look down, and he smiles softly at the sight of Peter with two fingers in his mouth, already just slightly messy with drool.

It’s one of the quickest ways to calm him down - give him something he can put in his mouth, ideally a pacifier or a teether, though Charles has offered his own fingers on occasion when better options haven’t been available, when Peter has regressed suddenly and unpleasantly in an inopportune place.  

It’s probably silly to keep to the same ‘don’t suck on your fingers, you’ll get sick’ mentality with Peter, since he’s not  _ actually  _ a toddler and surely has much cleaner hands than the average two-year-old, but it’s a protective habit.  Truthfully, Charles is a little bit terrified of Peter getting sick.

 

Carefully, he rolls his chair back to the desk, just enough so that he can reach to unlock a drawer and pull it open to retrieve a baby blue pacifier.  He’d acquired it soon after Peter had first regressed, but had been too embarrassed to offer it until several times later, afraid that it would scare Peter somehow - make the situation too real and solidify his shame.

Charles is unaware if the pacifier, or any of the other items that he’d been gathering over the months, have affected Peter or his views on his regression while he’s outside of headspace.  They’ve still never really talked about it, not properly, not like they  _ should _ , but it’s enough to know that Peter loves his pacifier while he’s little.  He calls it his “dummy”, because that was what Charles had called it when he’d first offered it, and - when Charles had asked, several weeks ago while Peter was little, if he liked it, Peter had nodded sweetly, sleepily, and lovingly referred to the colour as “b’ue”.

 

“Dummy.”  

Charles is brought back from his thoughts by the sound of Peter’s sweet voice, soft and still just slightly thick with tears.  He’s pulled his drool-soaked fingers from his mouth and is instead stretching with whiny little noises towards the pacifier held just out of reach by Charles, his lips firmly in a pout.  “Daddy. Dummy.”

“Say ‘please’, Peter,” Charles reminds him gently, but he’s already holding the pacifier to Peter’s lips before he’s even finished his sentence, because his heart thumps when Peter calls him that, when Peter asks him for things and lets himself be cared for.  

Peter, to his credit, manages to mumble out a “p’ease” before he takes it, and Charles rewards him with a kiss to his messy hair and a murmured, “Good boy,” and he holds Peter to his chest again as he starts to suckle, letting out soft noises of infantile contentment as the tension melts gradually out of his body.

 

Charles, as usual during times like these, finds himself spacing out.  He cards his fingers through Peter’s hair, gently combing it through until it’s no longer messy and knotted - surely from Peter’s tossing and turning in bed before he decided to seek Charles out - and he allows himself the time to just sit and think, feeling the warm, light weight of Peter in his arms and the gentle, pulsating presence of everyone else in the mansion, letting it all wash over him and soothe him.

As much as he wishes that he could be entirely content with that peace, however, he inevitably finds his mind drifting back to Erik.  He has no idea where in the world Erik might be, what he might be doing, whether he’s found a place to hide and find peace or if he’s travelling, running away, building himself up again to do something awful in the blind hope that this time it will be enough for him to  _ win _ .

 

Charles feels his heart clench as he holds Peter a little tighter.  He thinks about the few times before that Peter has looked to him and asked timidly about why Papa went away again only a short while after Peter had come to the mansion.  Seeing Charles and Hank and Logan during the Pentagon mission - other people just like him - had awoken something in him, and he’d asked timidly if it would be okay if he stayed.  He just wanted a place where he could be safe and free to explore his powers and not feel so distant from everybody else - it hadn’t been about Erik. Peter had hardly dared to talk to the man before he left, let alone tell him the truth of their relation, but he’d told Charles and he’d asked many a time since then if it’s his fault somehow, that Papa left.

Charles avoids the subject as much as he can.  Mostly because hearing Peter say “papa” makes his heart ache, and because he’s spent most his life thinking the the same thing - that it’s all  _ his  _ fault.

 

“Daddy,” Peter mumbles, garbled by his dummy, and Charles hushes him gently, trying to ignore the way his eyes are stinging.

“Are you tired, love?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.  Peter nods slowly, nuzzles into the crook of Charles’ shoulder firmly enough for Charles to keenly feel the uncomfortable press of the pacifier’s plastic guard, but he would never dream of complaining.  “Would you like me to take you back to your bedroom? I won’t leave until you’re fast asleep, I promise.”

It’s an offer that Peter usually takes, but today he sits up as quickly as if Charles had threatened him with something, letting out the sort of desperate “no!” that can’t be bargained with.  Charles thinks for a horrible moment that Peter will burst into tears again, but he just stares at Charles with his big brown eyes shimmering, and Charles sees the “don’t abandon me” painted clear as day within them.

“Wan’ Daddy,” Peter says, voice wobbling, and Charles nods, smiling sadly at him.

“Alright, Peter.  You can stay with me, then, alright? You know you’re much too precious for me to ever leave behind.  You can stay with Daddy.”

 

Honestly, he’s almost surprised that Peter didn’t say that he wants Papa.

 

Charles wants Erik, too.

 

“Come on.  Let’s go up to bed.  You hold on to Daddy.”

Charles pauses a moment longer, just long enough to lean over to the open drawer again and extract a colourful teething ring, because he can’t remember if there’s one left in his bedroom from the last time Peter had regressed or if it had been kept in Peter’s own bedroom.  He then closes the drawer carefully, mindful of startling Peter with a loud sound, and he wraps one arm around Peter’s waist to secure him safely while the other controls the wheelchair, traversing the empty hallways on the familiar route up to Charles’ bedroom. 

During the journey, he allows himself to marvel at Peter being so still and quiet.

While Peter often does do his best to be polite, and always tries very earnestly to sit or stand still while he’s being taught or tutored or talked to by anyone bar the few students he doesn’t at all get along with, he has a constant restless energy that makes him very clearly unhappy when he’s tied down.  Charles is used to Peter frequently disappearing during conversations - blinking seemingly out of existence for a single moment before reappearing just as easily in the next with messy hair and slightly more still hands, and Charles knows that that single moment for him was a blessed opportunity for Peter to burn off some of that awful restless energy by running an easy lap around the entire property.

 

It only makes it more apparent that Peter truly does live on a different wavelength to everybody else - different universes just barely overlapping.  But that allows Charles to truly appreciate  _ this  _ \- Peter, content and sleepy, allowing someone else to sweep him up and keep him at a steady, controlled pace, so that he can relax even if it might feel like he’s existing in slow-motion.

Still, it’s not quite perfect, and Charles reassures Peter that they’re almost there when the boy finally starts to fidget and let out soft little noises that are just barely the beginnings of whimpers.  Charles holds him tighter, afraid of him wriggling his way to the floor, and doesn’t let up on his grip even when Peter’s noises grow louder, more pointed, until they’re stopped and safe in Charles’ bedroom.  He releases his grip and Peter immediately struggles his way out of Charles’ lap, stumbling and falling to land on his bum on the floor when it becomes quickly apparent that he’s regressed a bit too far to be all too good at walking.

 

Charles has to resist the urge to laugh affectionately at him, sat on the floor looking so adorably confused by what exactly had just happened - a rare expression, to be sure.  

“Come on,” Charles encourages, leaning over to pat the bed and place the teething ring on the nightstand for tomorrow morning, if Peter wakes up still feeling little.  He’s always dreadfully restless if he’s not dead tired in the mornings, and he loves to chew on things - Charles can only image the tears if Peter manages to chew through the nipple of his pacifier, hence the multitude of teething toys.  “Up you get. I’m sure you’d like to curl up and go to sleep, hm?”

Peter sits for a moment longer, wiggling as if testing his mobility to see if it will betray him again, before he finally nods and sets about crawling up onto the bed.  He gets both of his arms hooked on top of the mattress before pulling his leg up, and then using that leverage to heave the rest of himself atop the soft covers, heedless of how they’d been neatly tucked back.

He looks positively triumphant when he’s finally fully on top of the bed, and he looks to Charles for praise.  Charles can’t help but practically grin at him.

“Good boy,” he says, rolling his chair just that bit further forwards and turning it to align himself with the side of the bed and the handles to lift himself over.  “Won’t let anything stop you, will you? Bet you were a nightmare back in the day.”

 

He reaches out and gets a grip on the handles, but then he remembers something and looks over to Peter, who’s wriggled over to the far side of the bed with his legs tucked close on either side of himself and his pacifier bobbing steadily in his mouth while he waits for Charles.  He makes such an innocent picture that Charles wishes he had a camera on hand, but he stops that train of thought before the notion of the photographs truly being for Erik has a chance to hurt as keenly as it could.

“Did you remember to put a pull-up on, Peter?” Charles asks as gently as he can, but Peter’s cheeks still flush a bright pink the moment he processes the words.  He looks distinctly ashamed for a moment, sinking into himself and lowering his gaze to the bedspread - not daring to meet Charles’ eyes - but he finally nods slowly and Charles smiles soothingly, even though he knows that Peter won’t be looking at him for a while yet.

“Such a good boy,” he says, then readjusts his grip and grunts as he lifts himself carefully over onto the mattress.  He stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment to allow his muscles to relax from the strain, but he hears the distinct sound of rustling sneaking up behind him before he has a chance to complete the task of pulling himself up properly.  

 

It’s only a moment more before skinny arms are looping around him from behind and Peter is again slotting himself against Charles’ neck, nuzzling into him like a kitten.  

“Hello, sweetheart,” Charles murmurs, with a playful lilt of surprise, and the soft, sleepy giggle that Peter lets out is enough to make his heart ache.

“Daddy,” he whispers in response, and Charles knows it’s just because he likes to say it, but he still responds with a soft hum which encourages Peter to say it again, and again and again until it’s slurred beyond recognition by Peter’s exhaustion, just a vague mumble of sound as Peter’s weight grows heavier and his pacifier comes tumbling out of his mouth.

He lets out a soft whine, staying still for a moment - too close to sleep to really be distressed - but then he obviously decides that he can’t or doesn’t want to sleep without his dummy, because he lets out a whimper that Charles knows by now to warn of impending tears.  

 

It’s enough motivation for Charles to finally pull himself further onto the mattress and lift his legs up after him, aligning them properly so that he can sleep comfortably on his back, but he leans over to retrieve Peter’s fallen pacifier before he even thinks about lying down.  He cleans it in his own mouth, wary of whatever germs might just happen to exist on his fresh sheets, before he offers it again and Peter accepts it eagerly, sucking on it quickly like he’s making up for lost time as he blinks the wetness away from his eyes.

“Come on,” Charles says softly, “Time to sleep now.  C’mere.”

He somehow manages to lie down in almost perfect, easy rhythm with Peter tucking himself into his arms, and even succeeds in pulling the duvet carefully over the two of them before they both settle down.  

 

Sometimes it’s not so easy.  Sometimes it takes hours of talking and soothing and holding and vaguely off-key singing by Charles before Peter is finally able to be swept up by sleep, but tonight it seems to take him the moment his head settles on Charles’ chest.  He’s fast asleep before Charles has even whispered goodnight, but he smiles softly and whispers it anyway just for the routine of it, looping his arm carefully around Peter’s ribs to hold him, not tight enough to be trapped - because Peter is always a restless sleeper, and almost always wakes up at least a couple of times during the night - but tight enough to be safe.

Charles is sure that he’ll be woken several times tonight by fidgeting or whimpering or soft sobs from beside him each time Peter wakes up, still gripped by the phantoms of a bad dream or simply still  _ tired _ , but he knows that he won’t truly mind.  It’s the sacrifice he makes every time he lets Peter sleep beside him like this, and it’s also the sacrifice he makes to ensure that Peter doesn’t wake up like that  _ alone _ , especially not while he’s infinitely more vulnerable than usual.

 

It’s not as if Charles sleeps much better anyway, and Peter is a welcome warmth and a blessed comfort.

Even if the picture feels incomplete - even if Charles so keenly feels that seemingly gaping emptiness in the space behind Peter on the bed - he is able to close his eyes in some semblance of contentment.

“Sleep well, Peter,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, clumsy kiss to the crown of Peter’s head and running a hand up his back to settle between his shoulder blades, feeling the ever-rapid thumping of his heart.

Right before he lets sleep take him, he whispers again to the emptiness.

“Sleep well, Erik.”

And he falls asleep hoping - as usual - that his love is enough to keep them both safe.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! ♡  
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed, and lemme know if you wanna see more little!peter/pietro stuff because,,, i love him


End file.
